


Pick Your Poison

by bootsonbutts



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:33:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bootsonbutts/pseuds/bootsonbutts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What will happen when the two strongest emotions are combined?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pick Your Poison

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first multi-chapter fic! alsjfjkl;;:  
> though some characters have been pulled from the Batman comics, this story is placed in the Nolanverse Gotham City. when i believe notes should be placed to explain something i'll put them at the beginning of the chapter, BUT in some later chapters the audience's confusion is necessary for the plot!  
> so!  
> bare with me  
> god bless

Dr. Harleen Quinzel, A.K.A Harley Quinn. Dr. Crane has seen this line typed many times on newspapers and news banners, and he knows who Harleen is. It never really occurred to him, however, that there was a pale face behind that dangerous new alias that he could easily recognize as one of his past coworkers. Not until he holds her record in his hands, at least. 

It doesn't take him long to read the file; it's hardly necessary, seeing how Harleen would talk about her personal life at every chance she had, even when Dr. Crane flat out snapped at her at how, no, he wouldn't like to hear about her weekend. No, he doesn't care about her thoughts on college. No, he doesn't find the Joker interesting, and no, she cannot interview him. 

Dr. Crane sighs and tosses the Manila folder holding her information onto his otherwise strictly organized desk. In all honesty, he finds Harleen to be an airhead burdened with very poor judgement, and Harley's case is even worse. He doesn't need to read her file to know that Harleen - _Harley_ \- is now very reckless, emotionally naïve, dangerous to society. Disgustingly infatuated in the Joker. Harley has been assigned to Dr. Crane as his patient, and though _she's_ absolutely thrilled, Dr. Crane would rather pierce his iris with a hot needle than sit in a room with the clownish girl and listen to her gush about her... How did she say it? "Romantic late-night excursion with Puddin'." 

Harley's ignorance makes Dr. Crane's skin itch in the most irritable way, and he takes his time packing the folder and a few other things into his briefcase to go to his scheduled interview with her. Because this is their first interview, it can only last up to twenty minutes. Dr. Crane tries to convince himself that their session can't possibly be so bad as he walks down the old and dirty asylum hall, but he can't seem to believe himself. Harley's a lot to handle. 

The moment the lanky psychiatrist steps into the sickly pale interview room, he regrets it. Before he can even open his mouth to greet Harley, she jumps up, ignoring the guard's glare from where he stands by the wall behind her. 

"Mornin', Doc! Miss me? I missed you!" 

Dr. Crane has to hide a cringe in response to her shrill voice. He forces a small flash of a smile, sitting down at the metal table across from his patient and setting his briefcase to the side, careful to keep it out of Harley's manacled reach. "Good morning, Dr. Quinzel." 

A pout. Drooping of the shoulders. Negative response, the reaction Dr. Crane was looking for. Harley composes herself a moment later, sitting down in her chair. "I go by Harley now. Harley Quinn." 

"I see." 

"Like a harlequin? Mistah Jay gave me the idea!" 

The instant change of mood in Harley's countenance nearly causes Dr. Crane to scowl simply out of spite, but he keeps his tone level. "Yes. I am aware. You like the name?" 

"Course so! It's the new me!" The blonde giggles, but as soon as her blue eyes brighten they dim again, and she slumps her shoulders, murmuring dolefully, "But I miss Puddin'... Where is he, Doc?" 

"I wouldn't know. According to Commissioner Gordon, you were the last to see him." He observes her for a moment, but when she doesn't react he reaches for his briefcase. "Shall we begin?" 

Harley shrugs, nodding. "Guess so," she mumbles, staring at the table's scratched surface. "You gonna record it?" 

"If you don't mind." 

"Nah, go ahead." She shrugs, falling out of her bad mood as she looks up at him. "But before you publish 'em to yer magazines or anythin', I wanna take a hear at 'em. Make sure I don't sound dumb." 

"I understand." Dr. Crane takes the tape recorder out of his briefcase, setting it in the middle of the table so it sits between him and Harley. As soon as he presses the button to begin recording their conversation, Harley clears her throat and sits up straight, folding her hands over the table. "Patient interview one with Patient Number 5683, Dr. Harleen Quinzel-" 

"- _Harley_. Hiya!" She grins down at the recorder, even attempting a wave of her hand that is limited by her handcuffs. She raises her big eyes to Dr. Crane's face again, her red lips quirked in an excited smile. "Happy ta be here." 

"Are you really?" Dr. Crane raises an eyebrow, figuring he'll begin as most of the doctors here do, asking questions that can easily be dismissed as small talk. It's a waste of his time, but the second hand on his off-brand watch is only counting down the minutes until he can leave. "You mentioned the Joker before this session began officially, stating how you miss him." 

And just like that, the young woman's happiness is replaced with grief. "Well... _Yeah_ , but... This is like home ta me! ...Or a grandma's home." 

The insane asylum. A grandmother's house. _No kidding_. Dr. Crane sets his jaw in spite of himself, jotting down 'signs of bipolar disorder' and 'apparent fondness of Arkham' on his pad of paper before replying with, "Elaborate, please." 

"Y'know how grandmas are, Crane-zy. Not the good ones, the ones that ya have a nice chat with before havin' enough of her and wantin' to shoot yer brains out. Their houses always smell like dyin' old people and burned tea, and for havin' such crappy furniture they sure care a heck a lot about it." 

"You believe Arkham Asylum to be like a nursing home..?" 

"No, Doc! Weren't cha listening to me!?" A flash of anger burns Harley's cheeks, and when her body goes rigid with agitation the guard takes a small step forward to grab her if she lashes out at her psychiatrist. Dr. Crane only shakes his head at the guard. "It's like a grandma's home! In nursing homes, everything's fake. It's a show, a rehearsed routine. But a grandma's home is what's behind the curtain! There's stuff in that place she cares about, even if it's stupid stuff, and she likes to be there even though her grandkids hate it after an hour or so." 

Dr. Crane nods slowly, taking off his glasses as he tries to process her analogy. For someone he would have considered at least capable of intelligible conversation less than a week ago, Harley shows signs of significant deterioration in her thought processing. Through Crane's eyes, everyone is seen as an imbecile; nevertheless, he believed Dr. Quinzel, however annoying she might have been and painful it might be to admit it, smart enough to have earned her title at Arkham Asylum. But _now_? Now she acts, speaks and just plain looks like the poster child for an emotionally wrecked toddler with a fondness for her mother's cheap makeup. For a woman easily manipulated and hardly professional, it's no surprise to Dr. Crane that the Joker was able to have her convince herself the pair of psychopathic maniacs were in love, causing Harley to experience something like delusional transference. Dr. Crane believes it felicitous, to say the least. "So you think that, under given circumstances, this asylum resembles a sort of... Backstage show?" 

"I guess, sure." She shrugs, glancing down at the recorder. "It's super important, and to be in it is kind of a big deal." 

"To be a patient here is an honor." 

"Exactly!" she exclaims happily, "But to outsiders it's totally insignificant." 

Dr. Crane gives her a short nod, pushing his glasses back up on his nose to write down a few more notes. "But that doesn't guarantee you'll never want to leave." 

"Course not." Harley snorts, leaning back in her steel chair as best possible with her hands cuffed to the table. She manages to kick her feet up to cross her ankles, only returning Dr. Crane's cold glare with a warm smile. "Who'd wanna stay here? It's like a grandma's home." 

The doctor can't help but sigh softly through his nose. He scoots his chair closer to the table, tapping his pen against the pad of paper for a moment before trudging through his next question in a near exasperated tone. "And is that why you escaped with the Joker in the first place?" 

Dr. Crane doesn't hesitate with mentioning the Joker because of any reason other than his complete lack of intrigue concerning Harley's sadomasochistic love life. So far he's done well in avoiding the subject of her crime, but he knew when he was first handed her file he would have to discuss the matter with her. For assigning Harley to him, he craved to wring Dr. Jeremiah Arkham's neck with his own bare hands. 

But Harley's response is limited to a shake of her head and a shrug of her shoulders. "Not cuz it's a grandma's home. You doctors _bullied_ him! Not you, though, Crane-zy." 

"Dr. Crane," he growls, shooting her a warning look. 

"Anyways. I just wanted to give the poor man what he deserved." 

"...Which was...?" 

"A friend! I wanted to let 'im know I'm rootin' for him, and what better way to do that than help him with his jokes? I'm a genius!" She sighs dreamily, letting her cheek fall onto her hand as she gazes over Crane's shoulder, murmuring, "I'm in _love_..." 

Dr. Crane rolls his eyes, catching the guard's silent scoff tossed towards the young woman's back. "You seem to use that term lightly, seeing how you've known the Joker for less than two months," Dr. Crane suggests before pursing his lips into a small smile, his signature bitch-face, raising his eyebrows as he anticipates Harley's expected reaction. 

He isn't disappointed: Harley snaps her heated attention back to her doctor, her lips puckering in a small bout of rage as her hands clench into tight fists. "You think you can tell me how I feel, Doc!? Well, newsflash, _Johnny_! I ain't ever been more happy since I met my Puddin' and I don't plan on leavin' that feeling to the hyenas anytime soon. So if that ain't love, I don't wanna know what is! Mistah Jay is the 'Who's there?' to my 'Knock, knock,' and I don't wanna talk to you again until you have a jester for yourself!" 

She could have continued her fit, but before she can go on screaming in Dr. Crane's face in that ridiculous Brooklyn accent somehow acquired during her transformation towards insanity the guard grabs her by the shoulders, forcing her back into her seat roughly. Dr. Crane stands, ending the recording before packing his things back into his briefcase. "Thank you for your time, Harley. I assure you it was not wasted," he says coolly, staring down the fuming Harley with his icy glare before turning and leaving the interview room. 

And in all truthfulness, the interview wasn't a waste; if anything, Dr. Crane decides as he walks down the hall for his office with an air of superiority, the conversation bent him to believe that Harley Quinn is nothing more than a bad joke. 

  


* * *

  


The next morning, when Dr. Crane steps into Arkham Asylum's blatantly dingy lobby to head to his office, the secretary is waiting for him at her desk. She holds out a piece of paper for him just as he's passing by, causing him to stifle a small impatient sigh when he turns around to take the paper from her and skim its contents. "...What's this?" 

"Well, if you were to read the bolded 24 pt. Times New Roman font centered and at the top of the page, you'd know it's your interview schedule for today," the woman replies, quirking a black brow up at the tall, bony man. 

Dr. Crane presses his lips together in retaliation to Ms. Beasley's unexpected dose of sass, handing the paper to her again as he murmurs back coldly, "Well, if you were to understand that I am a _grown man_ who has his schedule already and has practiced it _many times_ , you would know giving me a color coded chart as if I'm completely incompetent is highly unnecessary." 

Arkham's receptionist only throws him a flimsy smirk, not taking the schedule back as she turns to her computer to send an email to someone. "I'll accept you're a grown man as soon as you manage to buy a suit your size, Dr. Crane. Until then, I suggest you stick to the chart." 

Typical. Dr. Crane can only scoff at the young and unreasonably bold Indian woman, crumpling the schedule in his fist as he passes her desk quickly to reach his office down the hall. _Typical_. Typical she would do just that- they all would. The staff at Arkham talks about Dr. Crane behind his back collectively, and not all too discreetly; every week his ears burn at the sound of accusations and insults directed towards his work ethics, social skills, and especially his physical appearance. He can name five doctors off the top of his head that are absolutely convinced he's a homicidal maniac, and the rest view it as a possibility at least. The fact he can't find clothes that properly fit him and work within his tight budget irks many of the female staff members, and the male doctors only give Dr. Crane grief, recommending different menswear stores or trying to persuade him into a different clothing style. Dr. Crane doesn't care for that in the least. 

He cares about what the others think of him, of course, but not by _that_ extent. For all he cares, every other psychiatrist could go burn in hell, but thankfully the blundering idiots can gather enough context clues from the aloof Dr. Crane to conclude his opinion on each and every one of them: 

_Inadequate. Superficial._ Dr. Crane believes himself to be the only doctor, man or woman, actually worth more than the name plaque above his office door; he keeps this opinion to himself, but more often than not he aches to simply grab one of the phonies by their hair and scream to their faces their stupidity. He's above each and every one of them, surpassing them in every skill. Let them mock his sleeves and pants and jacket, his wallet, his briefcase, his shoes. He invites them. He figures they might as well, when they still can: _The man with the foolish grin is keeping perfectly still._

Dr. Crane unlocks the door to his office, locking it immediately after he's stepped into it before sitting down at his desk. He pauses, exhales slowly. _Calm down_. Realizing he's been ranting since he passed Ms. Beasley, he forces himself to take a moment and lean back in his cheap swivel chair, closing his eyes. To lash out too soon would arrest his plans and make everything he's built up crumble to the hard carpet at his feet, deeming his entire life thus far completely inessential and, honestly, a complete waste of time. No, he must wait; patience is a virtue, and one he was taught well. 

Three hard knocks on his door interrupts Dr. Crane from his thoughts. He shoots the door a look, narrowing his cold blue eyes when he recognizes the looming frame of Dr. Arkham through his translucent door window. Whoever isn't afraid of Dr. Crane at Arkham is definitely reserved in the least towards the head psychiatrist, nephew of the founder of this God-forsaken asylum. Dr. Crane doesn't trust him in the least, so when he opens his door he doesn't invite the older man in; instead, he stands in the doorway, the brown hair at the crown of his head nearly brushing against the top of the doorframe. 

"Can I _help_ you?" 

Dr. Crane's forced politeness unnerves Dr. Arkham, something the former is more than happy to bring to the table every time the two of them hold conversation with each other- which, granted, is rare. "Ms. Beasley tells me you refuse to adhere to your new schedule." 

Ms. Beasley. Of all the things she could pass the time by doing, she ultimately opts for making Dr. Crane lock with annoyance without fail. "Forgive me if I'm wrong," Dr. Crane says in his chilling murmur, "but is this not the schedule here?" He extracts the paper ball from where he had stuffed it into his pants' pocket, clearing his throat strictly for show as he uncrumples the sheet of paper and glances over it. He purses his lips, pressing them into his extravagantly sassy grin as he holds the schedule up for Dr. Arkham to see. 

"I believe it is, as stated in the bolded 24 pt. Times New Roman font centered and at the top of the page: _'May Schedule for Dr. Jonathan Crane.'_ ...It is May, yes, and I am indeed Jonathan Crane. Oh! And look here, please." He points to the first red block under the 'Time' header, raising his eyebrows at the furious Dr. Arkham. "My first interview is to be with Dr. Quinzel at 8:10. What time is it now? ... _8:00_." 

Dr. Arkham scowls at his subordinate, speaking quickly and in a hushed tone as he takes a step closer to the man. "You listen to me, Crane. You follow that schedule and take me seriously or so help me, I'll see you walk out of this establishment before the day is through. And what's more, _Doctor_ , I want a report on your patient by four this afternoon. Understand?" 

Dr. Crane grits his teeth, holding Dr. Arkham's glare with his own before finally muttering acknowledgement of the threat and turning to lock himself in his office again to prepare for his upcoming interview. 

Men like Jeremiah Arkham are the men Dr. Crane would pay to see mutilated. No. Men like Jeremiah Arkham are the men Dr. Crane is preparing for. The idea of being subjugated by some buffoon such as Arkham makes Dr. Crane's blood boil hot in his veins. He needs to be at the top, and Dr. Arkham needs to crawl on his hands and knees like the proletariat he deserves to be. 

Dr. Crane packs his things into his briefcase, heading out into the hall afterwards to make his way to the interview room he assigned Harley and himself to meet in. 

It's obvious when he reaches the interview room that Harley's still mad at him: she sits at the steel table with her hands clasped tightly together, her shoulders hunched and head ducked. She watches him enter without lifting her head, her eyes trained on his movements until he sits down across from her and begins the recording. 

"Patient interview two with Patient Number 5683, Dr. Harleen Quinzel." 

"Shut up about my name unless you start callin' me Harley," she snaps, shifting in her seat to size up her doctor. Her intentions are almost cute. 

Dr. Crane only shakes his head, murmuring with some preoccupation as he takes out his fountain pen and pad of paper, "Your legal name is Harleen, so it's the name I have to use." 

"Then- Then lemme change it to Harley Quinn!" She straightens her back, her handcuffed hands pressed flat against the table as she looks at Dr. Crane, her brow knit, pleading. 

She's _pleading_. 

"Why do you want to go by Harley so bad? -Yes, I understand that it's the 'new you,' but there must be a reason, other than the fact that the Joker wanted you to change your name, behind your transformation." The psychiatrist studies his patient, who somewhat resembles now a small puppy being rejected a belly rub. 

She whines, unintentionally annoying Dr. Crane to the point where he has to glance away, his hold on his pen clenching to a near threatening degree; however, lost in her own scattered mind, Harley doesn't even notice. "Being Dr. Quinzel is so _boring_ ," she wails, and Dr. Crane sucks air through his teeth as he squares his shoulders. 

"Sit up and tell me why it's boring without anymore infantile behavior." 

Harley sits up, shrugging like a mope as she mutters, "As Dr. Quinzel I ain't gettin' anywhere. All I'm doin' is talking to crazies about why they did whatever, an' for what? A paycheck?" 

"...I would assume so. Unless you mean psychology is only a hobby for you-" 

" _No, Doc!_ Don't you know _anything!?_ I'm not gonna be satisfied with just getting some certificate in the mail provin' I've got brains." She huffs at Dr. Crane as if completely impatient with his provincial mindset, continuing, "Bein' Dr. Quinzel means bein' boring and professional, and I don't like it! I wanna have fun and be with Puddin', cuz otherwise life's boring and there's no point." 

The young woman sighs, her slender body slumping under her scrubs-green inmate uniform. "That's the reason I did it in the first place." 

Dr. Crane doesn't ask any questions, only pursing his lips as he waits for her to go on. 

Harley frowns at her doctor, calming down significantly and letting a moment of silence pass between them before she speaks again. "We took my babies back from the zoo..." 

Dr. Crane can't hide a small smirk as he nods, sharing a fleeting glance with the guard standing against the wall. About a week ago, two hyenas were reported missing from Gotham's zoo, and for two days everyone was in a frenzy, calling animal control at every opportunity. The panic died out rather quickly, to Dr. Crane's dismay, but whatever happened to the animals remained unknown. A news report broadcasted two days ago stated that the GCPD was still on the lookout for the hyenas, but as far as Dr. Crane could tell, the officers never got off their fat asses once to patrol a single area. Commissioner Gordon might have attempted a search, but even that's a stretch. 

"For the thrill of living life, or to replace something you couldn't find elsewhere?" 

A pause. Harley shifts in her seat again, but this time to solicit comfort when she finds none in her thoughts. She glances at Dr. Crane, who prompts her with a quirk of his eyebrows. A moment of hesitation before she blurts out, "Both, I guess! I dunno! All I want is Mistah Jay, but he has to leave so many times on business, I- I get _lonely_ , Johnny." She sags her shoulders, and her bottom lip begins to quiver as she searches Dr. Crane's face for some assuaging factor that is nothing but absent. "My babies keep me company when my Puddin's away." 

Dr. Crane jots a few things down on his notepad before turning off the recorder and glancing at Harley. "Thank you for your cooperation today." 

"Just- just don't tell anyone, okay? I don't want Gordon to take away my babies when I just got them back." 

The psychiatrist shakes his head, standing to arrange his materials in his briefcase so that it'll close easily. "The Doctor-Patient Confidentiality Policy still applies, Dr. Quinzel. I can't publish anything you don't want me to. Have a good day." 

Dr. Crane lifts his briefcase off of the table and leaves the interview room, heading for his office to write his report. He'll cooperate with Dr. Arkham today, given he won't have to when his plan is in action.


End file.
